What a Fellowship
by LittleMender
Summary: He couldn't give in to the pull she unknowingly exerted.  It was better to distance himself, to leave her behind.  And selfish creature that he was, he just didn't think he could do that. Installment #6 in the Holiday/Next Time Series.


**Author's Notes: In light of recent events on the show, I wasn't sure about publishing this. It feels terribly out of context now and had to be rewritten in parts, but I had promised to post it, so post it I have. At this point I'm not sure if I'll continue this series.**

**In the U.S., Memorial Day began as a remembrance of soldiers who had fallen in battle. It has since become a day to remember and honor all those we've loved and lost.**

**The title of this 6****th**** installment of the Holiday/Next Time series is from an old hymn used in the film "True Grit".**

WHAT A FELLOWSHIP

"A's 'ahkin' 'lon', min'in' mah on bu'ness an' A'en Burley" 'um' ou' an' 'tack meh."

Dugger Chaffey lie prone, his face pressed into the asphalt of a Sacramento back alley, wrists handcuffed securely behind his back.

"What did he say?" Lisbon was feeling her way down his lower legs, nearly finished with trying to ascertain the man's injuries.

"Something to the effect of 'I was walking along minding my own business when 'Agent Burley' jumped out and attacked me.'" Jane answered her from where he leaned nonchalantly against the rear brick wall of "The Golden Age" meditation and gift shop. He tipped forward slightly so he was barely leaning over Chaffey's much abused head. "You shouldn't have made it part of your business to manhandle the little woman."

Chaffey rolled his head slightly to the side, just enough that one swollen eye peered up at Jane in irritation. "'S'e fo' real?" He drawled out in a thick Mississippi accent.

"I ask myself that all the time, but when I open my eyes, he's still here."

"You know, you keep saying things like that, Lisbon, and I'm going to think you don't want me around anymore."

"Huh. And here I thought you were the smartest person in the room."

"Oh, I am, my dear. I just find it hard to believe you really mean it."

"And yet, I just keep dropping hint after hint after hint after—"

"Kin somebody jes' git me outta heer?" Chaffey bawled.

Lisbon had ended her none too thorough investigation of his person and remained squatting at his feet to look up at Jane during their discourse. Now she stood and moved out of the way to allow Cho to haul the miscreant up and take him to a waiting car. The stiffness of her movements did not escape him, but Jane thought it best not to point it out at the moment. She turned and walked to where Rigsby slumped against a wall farther down the alley wearing a sheepish look as he watched her approach. Before she could start in on him, he couldn't help blurting out an explanation.

"He was all over you, Boss! I came around the corner, and saw what he was doing, and you were just . . . just . . ." He hung his head, unable to continue.

"_Taking it_," Jane thought to himself. "_Go ahead and say it, Wayne. She was just taking it_." In the day-to-day of their working relationship, Jane nearly always referred to Rigsby by his surname, but affinity for his willingness to nearly beat a man to death for assaulting Lisbon caused him to think of the big guy with a more tender affection that called for use of his given moniker.

Jane knew what she was trying to do. She was letting Chaffey go until he passed the point where fighting him off and giving him the beat-down he deserved would have been acceptable to Hightower, and hence, CBI Director Bertram and the Professional Standards Unit, all of whom had lately been on the warpath _again_. A couple of agents in Vice had come out on the wrong end of an PSU investigation, and a hothead in Narcotics had let a suspect get the better of his temper in an interrogation room. Both incidents had hit the papers, along with a report on over-the-top state law enforcement spending. Public perception was a bitch, and Bertram was making every disciplinary second count. The whole bureau was feeling stressed, and even the best agents weren't sure how to conduct themselves.

"I appreciate your concern, Rigsby, but I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, well, you _weren't_." He blurted out again, his tone conveying his anger over what she had been willing to put up with and his resentment for being chastised over coming to her aid. This time he didn't drop his head but held her eyes in a dark, intense stare. Lisbon backed down first, her eyes blinking out of sync under the force of his honest hurt and accusation.

"I know how it looked, but . . . " She sighed, yielding the point to what she wanted to say instead of what was expected. "Thanks, Wayne. Thanks for helping me out."

Realizing how much she meant with so few words, he nodded and pushed himself off the wall and walked to where Grace stood waiting by the SUV. She reached out to touch his arm, but he shook her off without a glance and climbed into the back seat, shutting the door behind him. Van Pelt frowned down at the pavement for a moment before she walked over to take a seat in the car with Cho.

"You know, Lisbon—"

"Don't."

She stalked away from him without a backward glance and hoisted herself into the driver's seat of the SUV, turned the key in the ignition and waited, looking straight ahead until he took his place in the passenger seat. It was hard for her to handle the truth of it. Chaffey was a small-time punk, and beating him up would've looked bad. But she had underestimated just how much damage he was able and willing to do. She had been lucky Rigsby came along when he did, and she knew it. She backed out of the alley and headed back to the CBI, the ride long and silent.

Some Memorial Day this was turning out to be. Not that Jane had expected much. The day held no significant meaning for him, but he sighed heavily and slumped in his seat wondering why, as government employees, they never seemed to get a government holiday off.

Upon their return to the building, Lisbon headed directly to Hightower's office to report the incident. The rest of the team sat in the bullpen, still not speaking, the agents moving about under the guise of productivity, searching for who-knows-what on their computers, flipping through standardized forms, wondering what their next course of action would be. Jane lay on his couch, not caring anymore about the tea he had longed for earlier. Chaffey had been looked over by a doctor and needed to be interrogated, but in a show of loyalty, Cho left him cooling his heels in a basement cell, refusing to question him until he got the order from his boss.

She appeared thirty minutes later, her face drawn and set as she stepped to the door of the bullpen and motioned Wayne into her office. They spoke briefly while Van Pelt, Cho and Jane watched unabashedly through the blinds. Expecting to see him turn over his gun and badge to her before exiting the building, they were all surprised when Rigsby shuffled back to his desk, took his seat and stared down at his hands a moment before pulling an incident report form out of his file drawer and proceeding to fill it out.

"She said you need to fill out a report, too, Cho. You saw what happened. PSU will want them before day's end."

"That's it? You and I just fill out the form? You're not going home?"

"They'll want to interview us. Boss, too. She convinced Hightower that it would look bad if I was automatically suspended up front. Said it would look to anybody watching like she already thought I'd done something wrong, that PSU needs to decide if I go or stay."

"_Typical_," was the thing that ran through the heads of all three of his listeners; Grace with sympathetic admiration, Cho with long-experienced acceptance and Jane with irritated resignation. Lisbon was the only person he knew who would be willing to suffer the indignations Chaffey had inflicted then turn around and throw herself on the grenade so one of her team members wouldn't get a week off without pay.

He had seen what happened, too, but he knew Lisbon would want to keep him out of it, not wanting to throw a wrench into the cogs that were part and parcel of the cops-investigating-cops mechanism. Neither she nor Rigsby could afford for him to ruffle those feathers.

She had told him to stay in the SUV, and this time he had complied, knowing that in such close quarters his getting in the way could cause more harm than his curiosity was worth. But Chaffey had unexpectedly run into the alley with Lisbon in hot pursuit, giving Jane a bird's eye view of the incident. Their suspect had suddenly rounded on her, obviously thinking one small female would be easy enough to handle. When the short but muscular man had taken hold of her and thrown her against the unforgiving brick wall, Jane was out of the SUV before her body rebounded. Just what he had thought he would do, he didn't know, but Rigsby seemed to materialize out of thin air, hands pulling Chaffey off of her then curling into fists thrown in tight precision, landing repeatedly with bone-jarring force. Chaffey was limp and bloodied and on the ground before Lisbon was finally able to pull Rigsby off of him, her ability to do so certain evidence of how much damage she would have been able to inflict herself once her sense of perfect timing had been satisfied. The whole thing had left Jane sick and shaken.

He was aware that Rigsby's actions would be the main focus of any investigation, but the PSU would not be able to ignore Lisbon's part in the incident and whether her behavior had somehow been calculated with her subordinate's coming on the scene as he had in mind. As far as he was concerned, Chaffey had gotten not only what he deserved but what was necessary considering the circumstances. Jane knew of one person in the Professional Standards Unit he could convince of that. Howard Tell had come into Jane's sphere of acquaintance some months ago when the Serious Crimes Unit, namely Lisbon, had been the subject of a very brief PSU investigation, due in large part to something Jane had done. Most agents at the bureau thought the members in the widely despised department used their position to exact a form of control, demonstrate their power over their externally operating counterparts, and Jane knew that was true of one or two of them. But Howard Tell was a real detective. Rather than engage in petty mind and control games, he dearly loved the simplicity of hunting out the bad guys who hid behind the badge. That being the case, he resented it when Bertram—or any other higher-up for that matter—used the PSU as their own kind of secret police. And he had a genuine respect and liking for Lisbon. Jane sent the text. As he expected the answer came shortly, and he lifted himself off the couch and left without a word.

Tell, tall and thin, heavily mustached and with a constant twinkle in his eye that belied both his age and fearsome tenacity waited in a booth at the coffee shop around the corner from the CBI building. The Texas transplant always reminded Jane of what he thought a Ranger might have looked like, weathered and watchful. Or maybe a town sheriff, easy going but not missing anything that went on in his jurisdiction.

"You got here fast."

Tell grunted out in his graveled voice, "Was already here when I got your text. Needed to get out of the office to clear my head. Too much crap floating around upstairs right now."

"I can imagine."

The older man crooked one side of his mouth in a craggy grin. "No, Mr. Jane, I don't think you can."

Jane had tried repeatedly in the past to get Tell to drop the "Mister", but for some reason, he was persistent in his use of the title. It wasn't out of respect, of that Jane was certain.

"You hear about what happened?'

"Just the general—no particulars. We'll get into all that after we get their reports."

"Rigsby and Cho's."

"And Lisbon's."

"And Lisbon's." Jane looked down at his tea as the waitress set it in front of him. Tell watched him in silence as he contemplated something. He couldn't help but be amused that Patrick Jane had called him out over an opening investigation without having any idea what he was going to say. This guy was never at a loss for words, whether planned or made up on the spur of the moment. Outside of that braggart Smalls in Organized Crime, he'd never met anyone who could come up with a mouthful of bull quicker, and even that was a close call. Jane's contrivances just didn't cross over into pure horseshit. Tell figured that's why he liked him so much. He could appreciate the insatiable drive to root out the bad guy, and Jane was just flat out entertaining as well. As far as Tell was concerned, they could use a bit more of both qualities in law enforcement.

The older man watched the younger, waiting as he turned his thoughts over, considering what, he didn't know. The agent in question? There was something in that, but it wasn't for him to pry. Wouldn't get him anywhere anyway. Just the same, Jane didn't realize how much he was giving away without saying a word.

"Look, Mr. Jane. We all know Agents Lisbon and Rigsby. And while we do our best to keep personal feelings out of it and conduct a straight-up investigation and go where the evidence leads us, past performance and years of character observation are part of that evidence. We're not naïve enough to believe there are cops who would never step off the straight and narrow—far from it. But we do know which ones are the least likely."

"Are you speaking for your entire unit?"

"I'm saying they'll come around. There may be a couple that still chafe over Agent Lisbon's past rejections of their amorous overtures, but we all realize a girl's gotta have 'er standards." He didn't see any physical movement, but Jane distinctly heard a wink in Tell's voice at that point. "Our ways may seem a bit convoluted, but we eventually find the cheese."

Tell had gradually come to lean across the table at Jane as he had been speaking, and Jane realized he was doing the same. Anyone watching would have surmised the two to be in conspiracy together. The agent leaned back to retrieve his buzzing cell phone from his trouser pocket.

"Gotta get back. Your girl's up."

Jane chastised himself, disappointed that he hadn't been there when she received her summons as he watched Tell lope out of the shop. Once outside, he lengthened his stride, and while not appearing to walk any faster, Jane appreciated that he would cover the distance back to the office at a quicker pace than most would at an easy run.

_Your girl's up . . . a girl's gotta have 'er standards . . . Your girl's up . . . Your girl._

Jane frowned down into his now cold and untouched tea. He was used to people thinking like that. It had started with the team, attaching meaning to the way they acted and the things they said to each other. The three agents usually didn't even bother to hide their amusement. He and Lisbon both just ignored it and went on, knowing there was nothing serious behind their teasing. As for the rest of the building, there was bound to be rumor and speculation when two technically unattached people worked so closely together—especially given the way they were around one another. Jane had to admit their relationship wasn't quite the norm for colleagues—not even for friends. But then they weren't exactly the norm for people. Still, it irked him just a little when outsiders made comment. It made him feel the urge to keep his distance, to not talk to her or spend time with her just to prove them wrong, as if he didn't care or have any special feeling for her.

Because he didn't. He would have to watch his step. He didn't want to seem too vested. He would let the investigation move forward, sure that Tell would keep things on an even keel. He would lie on his couch and await the outcome and let the world go on around him.

_Oh, screw it._

He stood up as he threw down a twenty to cover his tea and Tell's coffee plus tip and, unconcerned about his change, walked out of the coffee shop to go back and wait for her in her office.

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It had been over two hours, and Lisbon hadn't come back. Rigsby and Cho had turned in their incident reports and each spent their hour in questioning, and they and Grace were gone for the evening. He couldn't walk up to PSU and inquire after her whereabouts, but he was getting worried. Knowing he might be pushing it, he texted Tell. In seconds, he read the response. "Left 30 min ago."

Her things were still in her office, and her car was still in the parking lot. She was in the building or nearby, so he stood and paused to consider. Deciding to start at the top and work his way down, he climbed the stairs to his attic hideout. He slid the heavy metal door back and flicked on the lights. Only a glance told him no one was there. He walked down to the next level, an open industrial sort of mezzanine and walked the loop. Finding no Lisbon, he continued down the stairs to each floor, stepping out just enough to have a look around, not wanting to use the elevator in case she was hiding out in one of the stairwells. He came out on the administrative level just in time to catch Hightower waiting for the elevator. He pulled up short, not really wanting to engage her in conversation, but it was too late. Hightower had seen him, but she turned and faced the elevator doors as she spoke.

"Jane," she said in that quiet voice that was always calm, as if she were coaxing a child. The note of concern in her measured speech wasn't usual. "Do you know where Agent Lisbon is? I've called her office, and she's not answering her cell. I was hoping to talk with her before I left for the evening."

He pushed his fists into his pockets and mouthed a nonchalant "Nope". He didn't know what Madelaine wanted him to say, but he wasn't going to make it easy by prompting her.

"I realize that things might have gotten a bit out of hand—"

"You think so, Madelaine?" He couldn't resist. The use of understatement was absurd. At his accusatory tone, the department head turned to look at him.

"Yes. I believe we need to rethink our strategy on some issues. I . . . I don't believe I've handled some things as well as I could have."

"I think that's a very sensible thing to think."

Hightower studied the consultant for a moment. Understanding seemingly washed over her and one corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile, a mixture of regret, relief and embarrassment. The elevator door slid open, and she stepped into the car. Turning back to Jane, she only said, "I'll leave you to it then."

"Good night, Madelaine."

Jane turned away from the elevators to see Howard Tell watching him, obviously on his way out for the evening, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

"Got a hot date?"

"Sorta. Just going to visit my wife. Dusk is always our time together."

Tell's wife had been dead for nine years. _Dusk is our time_ . . . Present tense. Jane had nearly forgotten it was Memorial Day. _Our time . . . next time_. He frowned and shook his head. Tell looked at the elevators waiting for the car to come, one hand in a trouser pocket, the other holding the bouquet down at his side, and just like Hightower had done, not turning to look at Jane as he spoke.

"Few years ago, 'fore you joined up—Lisbon wasn't a team leader yet. One of 'er team members, kid named Gossett, got caught up in some bad stuff. They were friends. As much friends as she'd allow anyway. Got himself killed in a bust, truth came out, he was dead, reputation ruined. She was up, and when I called her, she said she'd be right there. Half an hour passed, and she didn't show, so I went lookin' for 'er. Found 'er downstairs in one of the empty cells. Think she still goes there. Not often. But sometimes."

The elevator doors opened, and Tell stepped in, turned and raised two fingers to the side of his forehead in salute. Jane headed back to the stairs, wanting to take his time going to the basement. The lower level cells now held many memories, some astounding and some shockingly gruesome. He hoped this turned out better.

The heavy metal door at the bottom of the stairs opened directly onto the temporary holding hallway. The last door on the left stood open, and he headed for it, hoping that's where he would find her. He hated the idea that she might have entered one of the oppressive little rooms and actually closed herself in.

She was sitting on a cot that had been pushed up against the wall, her back resting against the cool cinderblock, knees pulled up, arms encircling and head resting on them. He checked his pockets for handkerchief, tissues—even paper napkins would do. Not finding anything and hoping for the best, he crawled onto the cot and sat next to her, folding his legs crisscross and leaning his head back against the block. Unsure of exactly how to start things off, he rocked sideways and nudged her. Nothing. He waited, uncertain of what he should do next as the seconds passed. Finally, without lifting her head, she rocked and nudged him back, only a little harder.

"So . . . what are we doing down here?"

A deep sigh. Sounded dry. Good thing.

"We're spending some quality _alone_ time."

"Mm. Most people pick a different sort of place. A quiet stream, a park, a spa. But this . . . this is very telling, Lisbon. _Very_ telling."

"I'd ask how you found me, but I assume you used your usual methods."

"Actually I just ran into Agent Tell as he was leaving. He suggested I try down here."

At Tell's name her head came up, and she looked at Jane with concern.

"He's just now leaving? He's cutting it kinda close—it'll be dark soon."

"You know where he's going?"

"To visit Sarah Beth. He goes every evening and takes her a big bouquet on special occasions, including Memorial Day." She looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. "Do you ever . . .?"

"No. What would be the point?"

"To remember them."

"That's not how I remember."

He looked down at her to find she was still staring at his hands. He lifted his right hand and flicked his wrist, producing a quarter seemingly out of nowhere, and proceeded to flip and catch it repeatedly.

"I would love to get a look at the inside of your jacket sleeves sometime. I'll bet you're only about half the size you seem to be."

"You'd be—"

"I know. I'd be in danger from the 'Magic Police'."

"I was going to say you'd be the only person I would trust to know the contents of my jacket sleeves."

She accepted what he said without question and sighed again, turning her gaze away from him to close her eyes and lay her head on his shoulder.

"This holiday sucks."

He chuckled at her. Succinct and to the point as always, nothing held back. It reminded him of something he'd glimpsed earlier.

"Hey, everybody's gone home, and upstairs is practically deserted. Rigsby's got a bootleg copy of the new "True Grit", and I think it's still in his desk. Let's watch it."

She lifted her head and looked at him like he was deranged. He could tell she was considering it.

"Come on," he said coaxingly. "We can watch it on the big screen by the conference table. Lots of shooting and cussing and yelling. Just your cup of tea."

She decided to let that slide. "Is there anything to eat up there?"

"Gourley in IT has a secret stash of gourmet microwave popcorn."

"Help me up."

He stood and took both of her hands in his, pulling gently as she scooted forward on the cot. When her feet touched the floor and she started to push herself up, she suddenly hitched in her movements and groaned in pain. Extending his arms straight out in front of him, he slid them under hers and hoisted her as she laid her hands on his shoulders. He flashed back to earlier—Lisbon hitting a brick wall as hard as Dugger Chaffey could throw her. Ducking his head and leaning around her side, he barely managed to pull up the back of her shirt before she gasped and stepped away from him sideways, jerking the hem of her top into place. She winced with the jarring movement. She had moved quickly, but not before he saw bruising, purple and angry, punctuated with small red pin-prick dots. A deep blush bloomed in both cheeks, but he wouldn't call her on it, recognizing embarrassment and something else he didn't immediately recognize. He wondered at it and nearly shuddered at realizing it was shame, he guessed, over the evidence of abuse and her inability to protect herself from it.

"I know you made sure Chaffey got medical attention. Did you have anybody look at that?" He almost sounded angry.

"It's just a few bruises, Jane."

"One big bruise, Lisbon. How much does it cover? And is that all? Where else did he hurt you?"

She refused to look at him, her fingertips still nervously playing along the bottom of her shirt.

"I haven't looked."

"Well, . . .," he inhaled, trying for a softer tone of voice. "Let's get you upstairs. You can have a look at yourself, and I'll get the movie set up. Unless you just want to go home."

"Yes—no—I mean—I want to watch the movie."

He helped her to the elevator, Lisbon holding his arm and leaning against him only slightly and relieved the place seemed to be deserted. On their floor, she ducked into the ladies' room while he got everything together. When she came out, Jane was nowhere to be seen, but he had pulled the conference table and chairs away and centered his couch in front of the television. A mega-tub of ibuprofen, the scotch and two water bottles from the break room sat on the coffee table he'd commandeered from somewhere. Lying on the couch seat was a small pallet made of a two-gallon plastic bag filled loosely with ice and sandwiched between two heavy towels with a pillow at one end. She hoped it wasn't that thing he laid on in the attic. Who knows where it had come from or how long it had been up there. Fatigue and awareness of her discomfort settled on her, and she just wanted to lie down. She braced one hand against the back of the couch and the other on the arm and started to lower herself like a very pregnant woman just as Jane walked into the bullpen.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He moved to her side quickly putting the popcorn down as he reached her. He slid his arms under hers, again keeping them straight and jutting out behind her, planted his feet on the outside of hers and leaned one shoulder into her chest, pushing her back as he bent his knees, lowering her to the couch. He then lifted her legs and turned her gently, pivoting her body on her rear and sliding her shoes off as he laid her legs on the cool leather. All she had to do was lie down.

"Aaaaaaaaaaa-ugh." The pillow smelled like oranges.

Jane opened the ibuprofen and a bottle of water. After shaking four gelcaps out into his palm, he knelt on one knee beside her and slid one arm under her shoulders, helping her to lift her head off of the pillow. He offered the pills to her, one at a time, alternating them with sips of water.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I should probably just drive you home." The look he gave her was serious and concerned.

"Only if I can take that tv, this couch, that popcorn and this ice pack with me . . . and I know there's no Scotch at my apartment."

That seemed to satisfy as well as please him, and he turned to sit on the floor leaning back against the couch front, pick up the remote and push play.

"Jane, I don't think I can watch like this."

He looked at her over his shoulder and saw that she was more looking up than over. Completely undaunted, he pushed pause, stood and took hold of the corners of the towels on either side of her hips.

"Grab the pillow," he commanded, and when she did, he pulled firmly to move pallet, woman and pillow down the couch. Then, trading the pillow out for his lap, he tilted her back and shoulders forward, sliding the pillow behind her between the pallet and the couch back, effectively tilting the top half of her body toward the television.

"Better?"

"Mm-hm." She shivered, chilled by the ice, and he reached over the side of the couch and produced a blanket, unfurling it and laying it over her. Settling the popcorn on the couch in front of the curve of her waist where they could both reach it, he hit a button and "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" started to play.

Halfway through the movie he looked down to see she had fallen asleep, her hand lazing in the nearly empty popcorn bowl. He pulled the bowl away, laying it on the floor beside the couch. After slipping the nearly melted ice pack out from behind her, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, pushing it into place around her with his fingers, tucking her in. She curled her legs up and turned her face into his thigh briefly before wiggling herself deeper into the couch from her shoulders down. He smiled at her and brushed her fringe out of her face before settling his hand on her shoulder and turning back to the film.

It wasn't to his usual taste, but he liked it, in spite of its decidedly religious overtones. He liked that the old marshal did what he had to do, the lawman who worked in spite of the law. And he liked the Texas Ranger, too. He wasn't the way Jane imagined Tell, but Jane knew he would come through in the end. And the little girl—her family ripped apart by the violent death of a parent, the other unable to cope, leaving the oldest child to see to keeping the family going and finding justice for them all. He looked down at Lisbon and realized that he was absentmindedly twirling a strand of her hair around his fingers. Her face was smoothed worriless in deep sleep. No furrow of the brow, no scowl, no pinch. As he watched her, she barely frowned in her sleep, and he laughed that even so obviously in deep rest she wasn't completely free from whatever irked her in wakefulness. Poor girl . . . _Your girl._

The partial breath he had just taken was expelled suddenly through his open lips, and he abruptly released her hair from his hold. He turned his head slightly to the side and narrowed his eyes at her as if she was making whatever just happened happen on purpose. The shift in his position and demeanor was just enough to rouse her.

"Jane?" she asked sleepily, not opening her eyes.

He pushed stop and powered the television off.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, movie's over," he lied. His thought was to get her up and home, but when she fell immediately back into deep sleep, he knew she couldn't drive herself and didn't have the heart to make her get up and suffer through the car ride.

Completely unguarded, she was content to let him take care of her, and that was almost as startling to him as the turn his thoughts had taken. How did they get to be this way together?

_Next time_. All of their next times.

And he had broken his own rule. In all of the past seven years, only one thing had startled him, frightened him, meant enough to him to become a discipline he had resolved to pursue, and that only in the past few months. Do _not_ touch Lisbon. The first time she was hurting, it had flown out the window. The fact that he had felt the need to have such a rule in the first place should have been a red flag. He looked down to see that he had unwittingly tangled his fingers in her hair again. _And_ he was rubbing circles on her shoulder.

For the first time he thought about what he was feeling instead of just shutting down. He couldn't just give in to the pull she unknowingly exerted. If he ever got past his guilt and self-loathing to do so, he was sure it would frighten and confuse her, which would in turn make her angry. And it could possibly signal the end of their working relationship, maybe even her career if things went horribly wrong. It was better to distance himself, but the only way he could get any further away than the attic room was to leave altogether. He would be leaving _her_ behind. And selfish creature that he was, he just didn't think he could do that. Lisbon was his best friend, and more since he was being honest. He didn't much care for the idea of not being around her. He endangered their relationship enough in the day-to-day of their working together, and he knew in the reality of it he might be forced to leave one day. But to just walk away . . . that he couldn't do.

She murmured something in her sleep and turned her face into his thigh again. Okay, that really needed to stop. He gently pulled the pillow out from behind her back and carefully slid it beneath her head as he scooted sideways and rose from his seat. If he moved her onto her own couch, she could sleep there as long as she would. He would rest in the bullpen after he put everything away so he would be near in case she needed anything in the night.

Walking into her office, he picked up her keys and headed down to her car to retrieve the overnight bag with the change of clothes he knew she kept in the trunk. Then, he returned to their floor and dropped the bag on her desk where she would see it in the morning. He went back to where she lay on his couch and gently shook her shoulder.

"Lisbon? Lisbon. You need to get up."

"Hm?" She frowned and tried to turn her face into the pillow.

"Lisbon, come on. You need to move to the other couch."

"Don' wanna."

"Come on, Lisbon. Just for a little bit. The couch is right in there."

She raised one limp hand to him—an offer to let him help her up. He lifted her to her feet and walked her into her office much the way he had walked her up from the basement. Her eyes never opened. He got her situated and re-tucked in and stood looking down at her in the dim light. Reaching toward her with his right hand, he gently pushed her fringe to the side then let his fingertips ghost down the long lock of hair that hung over her shoulder and across her folded arm. When he reached its end, he took hold of it between his index and middle fingers then moved his wrist and hand in a circular motion, winding the strand around his fingers and shortening it until it brought his thumb to rest against her face. It stunned him when she turned into his touch, but not enough to keep his thumb from lightly stroking back and forth across her cheek.

He sighed and released his hold on the lock of her hair, allowing it to uncoil itself from his fingers. That would have to do. It was all he could dare or afford. Thinking it best to move away from her, he walked back into the bullpen and set about putting everything back in its usual place. He didn't want either of them to have to answer questions the next day, and that meant that come morning, he would need to be in the attic.

For now he would lie on the old brown leather couch, close by if she needed him, and not let it bother him that he could still feel the softness of her skin against his thumb or the silk of her hair wrapped around his fingers. This time he didn't try to fool himself into thinking the memory and feeling would fade in a few days. Tomorrow, the best he could hope for was that he would be able to push it to the back of his mind and his senses, where he could keep it safe from prying eyes. Safe, untouched and undetected.

He didn't know when there would be a next time.

**END**


End file.
